


losing touch

by mine_eyes_dazzle



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 12:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3851083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mine_eyes_dazzle/pseuds/mine_eyes_dazzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fragments come back to him as he lies there, glowing in the light of her betrayal, blood on the hardwood floor painting a picture of defeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	losing touch

**Author's Note:**

> Set post the woman (1x23)

_console me in my darkest hour,  
convince me that the truth is always grey_

_the killers, losing touch_

_..._

 The pain in his shoulder is too much.

(but it’s not the pain in his _shoulder_ , is it?)

...

Now he knows she never existed, that she was a creation made simply for one task: to destroy him and it worked oh so well.

She walks into that room, holding the weapon aloft like some victory salute, her way of saying – ‘I beat you’ – and he knows then that nothing hurts more than

losing

...

Fragments come back to him as he lies there, glowing in the light of her betrayal, blood on the hardwood floor painting a picture of defeat.

-just moment here, a feeling there, nothing substantial, nothing he can grab onto.

But time floats on, losing meaning and sliding into a mess of tangled memories and flashing images, unconnected but for two things.

him&her 

...

She used to lie on his sofa in his old shirts as he sat cross-legged on floor, papers from the case he was working scattered around them, as they talked to the moon and back.

(he remembers that vividly

like it was yesterday)

...

His mind spills and trips over itself, speeding at one hundred miles an hour. If Irene was a fiction, then was everything make-believe?

\--were the moments he felt the most alive in his entire life just an illusion, thought up by her the day she decided to burn his life to the ground?      

Just minutes ago, he would have sworn blind that she loved him.

Now he wants to scream and yell at the world for making him believe such lies like that she was real in the first place.

_..._

The girl who never existed used to smell like lemons and paint.

(he remembers that as well)

He wonders if Moriarty does too.

...

His shoulder starts to throb, thrumming and rattling his body with aches and pains so deep it feels like he’s on fire.

(except, it’s not his _shoulder_ , is it?)

...

He asks her to tea. She quirks an eyebrow, looking at him like he’s mad, but takes his hand anyway. They walk side-by-side down to the waterfront. They eat scones and drink tea and later, as they trace the curve of the Thames by foot as the sky grows dark, he catches her looking at him.

He can’t see her eyes clearly in gloom, but there’s something there, something the man with the all seeing eyes cannot place. When she realises he’s studying her, she flinches away.

(he can place it now. but it does not fit, not with the new developments so it cannot be true)     

-except, now, more than ever, he’s certain in his convictions.

and that...that just doesn't make sense to him, spread eagle on the ground with a bullet in his shoulder and a crack in his heart so wide you could step into it.

...

The sound of violins washes over him, pitching him headfirst down a tunnel back into the past, despite the fact he tries so hard to push it away, tries to pull at the threads of the memories and tear them apart.

Irene, standing at the window,

no

combing her hair,

no

 pinning it up,

no

 tucking her shirt in,

no

 flicking her shoes on.

no

no

no no no no no n-------

...

He’s behind her, his violin tucked under his chin, making music that haunts his ears Now. He’s looking at her, she’s pretending not to notice, but of course, she knows. The music is for her, she knows that too. His own piece, composed for her in the dead of night a few weeks ago. She probably knows that too.  

The memory fades and slowly everything gets smaller and smaller, zooming outwards, until all he can see is her silhouette, framed by the window.

...

 She has the same face, same eyes, same body.

but a different voice, a different demeanour – she is a different person.

(but just how different are they? this stranger clearly has much in common with the woman he knew, even just the things he noticed during their brief meeting earlier; simple traits that transcend the clear similarity in looks and into something deeper, some base nature that both puppet and master share)  

 ...

A mess of hair on the pillow, a sleeping form - defenceless, secret-less, innocent; a beating heart in a body just like everyone else, flesh and blood, human nature in action.  

He watches, observes, comes to conclusions. To begin with he treats it like an experiment (ironic, really, he knows, after he finds out that she was _experimenting_ too) but soon he stops. He just can’t pretend anymore.

-lying there, now, he wonders if she came to the same conclusion as he did

_(VERDICT: SHERLOCK HOLMES HAS FALLEN IN LOVE)_

-or if she ever felt a thing, if she managed to excise control where he couldn’t

...

Of course she did, she was cleverer than him; she beat him.

...

and yet, he wonders what her plan was. She wanted him to run away with him before he found out, before he ruined everything.  Was she planning on keeping up the deception for as long as possible, tricking him into falling ever deeper? Planning on killing him the moment they crossed the border?

Or was she planning on corrupting him, turning his talents to her chosen vocation? (because underneath it all they are just the same)

Or is the real answer she didn’t have a clue and was making it up as she went along, because for such a clever woman her ‘ _plan_ ’ was bollocks, as he’d so helpfully pointed out earlier.

-she just wanted him again. (he’s unsure quite what that means for everything, after it all)

...

She used to read James Joyce or William Shakespeare or some other author by the street lights bleeding in through the curtains, sitting in his favourite chair, as he lay flat on his back staring at the latest case, blu-tacked to the ceiling.

(he’d forgotten about that. it used to happen a lot)

...

The floor is hard on his back, but he doesn’t move.

The fragments still float before his eyes, and for some reason he’s loath to let them go.

...


End file.
